


stockings

by kate_the_reader



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Genderbend, Lingerie, M/M, inception trope bingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-07-21 19:43:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7401265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kate_the_reader/pseuds/kate_the_reader
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What does it feel like to forge a woman? Arthur is curious. Eames tries to explain.</p><p>Arthur and Eames's tentative dance is finally coming to an end ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	stockings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [swtalmnd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/swtalmnd/gifts).



> The last of four fics for Inception trope bingo. A sort-of series.
> 
> As always, chasingriver is amazing.  
> And this was another idea prompted by swtalmnd. Thank you!

Eames has seen the way Arthur looks at him when he forges a woman. 

It's not with desire, as such. Arthur is entirely gay, he is certain. He doesn’t want Eames as a woman. It's not that. 

Depending on the mark, Eames's female forges range from statuesque and commanding, taller than he is in real life, to petite and curvy. Something for any taste. Eames likes them all. They each have their own quirks. He likes the way each of them feels different to him. He enjoys the feel of their clothing on his skin, the way it grips and slides. Eames is old-fashioned, too, so many of his women wear elaborate under-garments, the sort his mother wore, and that he glimpsed while helping her get dressed for an evening out. Silky slips, stockings, garter belts. 

It's not even necessary most of the time, to be so detailed, but Eames likes it and does it anyway. And he has seen the way Arthur looks at him. Eyes narrowed, speculating. 

"What does it feel like?" Arthur asks one day. They're alone in the office. It's hot. The windows are open in hopes of catching a breeze and a fan turns overhead, pushing the heavy air. Arthur is wearing linen trousers and a white shirt, collar open and cuffs turned back. His hair is falling over his forehead. 

"What does what feel like?" 

"Being a woman?" 

Eames can't imagine where that came from. He hasn't had to forge a woman on this job. In fact, it's months since he last did one, the tiny blonde. 

"Well, you know it's not really _being_ another person? It's more like wearing a costume. It's still me, inside." 

"Yes," says Arthur, "but what does it _feel_ like? Explain it to me, even though I lack imagination." 

Eames looks at Arthur, who has pushed away from his desk and turned to face him. 

"Okay," he says, "I'll try." 

He closes his eyes, thinks himself into the blonde, the one he calls Frankie. He isn't putting on her physical self, just recalling the sensation. 

"Well," he says, "a woman's body is totally different." 

"No kidding, Eames," laughs Arthur. Eames opens his eyes. Arthur has his chair tipped back, held in place by the tip of one toe, shod in a well-polished brown leather brogue. 

"I'm getting there!" says Eames, "give me a minute. Okay, so that feels … more delicate, somehow. Frankie, for instance …" 

"Frankie?" says Arthur, "they have names? Which one is Frankie?" 

"Of course they have names, Arthur. Frankie's the tiny blonde. Are you going to let me finish?" 

"From the Fischer job? That blonde?" 

"Yes, Frankie. She's very sweet, very distracting to a certain kind of man. And quite, um, how shall I say? Quite disciplined." 

"I'll bet," says Arthur. "That dress she was wearing, you'd have to be disciplined to wear that." 

"Yes," says Eames. "So, to help with the illusion, she's accurate under the dress as well, shall we say. She's wearing very nice knickers." 

"'Knickers'? Oh my god, Eames, 'knickers'?" 

"Arthur!" huffs Eames, exasperated. 

"Okay," says Arthur, his hands raised in surrender, a grin dimpling his cheeks, "okay, I'll shut up." 

"Thank you, darling," says Eames. "So, she has very nice knickers. And stockings. And a garter belt." 

Arthur's eyes widen and he licks his lips. "What does _that_ feel like?" he asks. 

"Would you like to find out?" Eames holds Arthur's gaze, challenging. 

Arthur looks away, biting his lip. "Um," he says, "I don't … Yes. Why not? Yes." 

"Alright," says Eames. "Looks like I need to go shopping. I'll see you in your hotel room in two hours." 

There's an Agent Provocateur store in a mall not far from the hotel. Eames shops efficiently and is knocking on Arthur's door two hours later, pink bag swinging from his hand. 

Arthur opens the door, wearing a towel round his hips, his hair damp and loose. "I took a shower," he says. "I didn't want to try this all sweaty." 

Eames tries not to stare too openly at Arthur's chest and the peaks of his hip bones. "Good idea. Well, here you are." He hands Arthur the bag and turns to go. 

"Wait, Eames!" says Arthur, catching his wrist. "I'm not parading around in 'knickers' and stockings all on my own here!" 

"You want to put on a show?" says Eames. "Really?" 

"You nervous, Mr Eames?" says Arthur, a glint in his eyes. 

"Not in the least, darling," says Eames, stepping into Arthur's room and heading for the mini-bar. "Mind if I have a drink?" 

"Go ahead. I'll have a Scotch, too." Arthur heads into the bathroom. 

Eames takes out two of the tiny bottles and the ice tray and pours them each a drink. He sits down in the room's only armchair. He waits, trying not to listen, but it's hard not to hear Arthur huffing in the bathroom. 

"Oh god," he hears him mutter. "Geez." 

Finally, Arthur calls, "I'm coming out. Don't laugh." 

"Never!" says Eames. 

The bathroom door opens and Arthur comes into the room. His hair has dried and is curling round his ears. But that only distracts Eames briefly. He lets his eyes run down Arthur's slim torso. The black lace of the garter belt stands out against his olive skin, the straps outlining his hips. The knickers, plain black, are well filled. His lean thighs are ruled off by the lace tops of the black stockings. 

Eames swallows. 

"Well?" says Arthur, voice soft. Shy. 

"Well, what _does_ it feel like?" says Eames, wishing his voice wasn't a little strained. 

"It feels … interesting. Um … It _is_ sort of disciplining." 

Arthur walks forward, crossing the room towards Eames. He isn't wearing shoes, of course, but his hips sway a bit all the same. He keeps coming towards Eames, who leans back in the chair, looking up at Arthur. 

Arthur smiles and leans down, reaching for the other whisky glass, the naked sweep of his chest brushing past Eames. 

He turns and walks over to the bed. 

Eames raises his own glass, the ice cubes ringing against each other as his hand trembles. 

Arthur sits down, knees crossed demurely, and looks at Eames over the rim of his glass. 

"Well?" he challenges. "What do you think?" 

"God, darling," says Eames. He puts down his glass and stands up. Arthur leans back on his elbows. Not demure anymore. Eames crosses to the bed and takes the whisky glass out of Arthur's hand. Runs a thumb along Arthur's jaw. 

Arthur trembles, his mouth opens slightly. 

Eames leans down and kisses him, lightly. "I've wanted to do that for … years," he says, pulling back. "For years," dipping his head again. "God, Arthur." 

Arthur shifts back up the bed and Eames crawls after him. He reaches out and runs just one finger down Arthur's side, to the lace of the garter belt. "What the hell have you done to me?" 

"Eames," Arthur says, barely a whisper, "What have you done to _me_?" 

"I don't know, Arthur. But whatever it is, thank god." Eames laughs, but it is cut off by Arthur, arching up and kissing him. 

"It _feels_ … perfect," Arthur says.


End file.
